Psychiatrists
by Shaz.Bananas
Summary: Amy Pond and her four psychiatrists. A fanfiction documenting all of them. Will probably be Eleven/Amy in the coming chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me. More's the pity.

This is based one something Amy said in episode one 'The Eleventh Hour' about how in her lifetime she had to see 'four psychiatrists' who all tried to convince her the Doctor wasn't real. I've decided to do a fanfiction based on this. I want to do one chapter for each psychiatrist (so four in total), but I'll see how you respond to this first. I wrote this relatively quickly, so please be nice when it comes to reviews!

**Psychiatrists**

**CHAPTER ONE - Psychiatrist 1**

I'm in a waiting room.

Aunt Sharon is sitting next to me. She doesn't want to be here, and keeps tutting and sighing loudly as she reads her Mills and Boon novel. She's always reading those stupid books. I asked her why she read them once: she said she needed to have some excitement in her life since Uncle Billy ran off with his secretary. I just nodded along - but it wasn't like I actually cared or anything. It's not like she cares about me anyway. She pretended for a bit after Mum and Dad went away - she made me pancakes for breakfast and drew on smiley faces in chocolate syrup, she let me watch whatever I wanted to on the telly, she didn't even get cross when I broke her shiny blue vase that Uncle Billy had bought her in Greece. But now she hardly speaks to me at all; and since all of the 'raggedy Doctor' business started, she's been acting like she doesn't want me there at all.

There's a boy sat opposite me and he's definitely weird. He keeps fidgeting and scowling, and keeps kicking things and shouting at his Mum. His Mum looks like she wants to cry. I'd want to cry too if I had to live with that stupid boy. He doesn't look nice at all. Aunt Sharon stares at them over the top of her book, and smirks. She thinks she's better than them, see? Because even if she does think I'm a loony, at least I'm not kicking her and swearing at her all of the time.

There's another boy here too. He's littler than me though, he's about five or six years old. He's knelt on the floor in the kid's play area, stacking up big piles of plastic bricks. He sorts them into different colours - one pile of red bricks, one pile of blue bricks, one pile of green. He screams the place down when one of the other kids tries to add a yellow brick to the red pile. His Dad, a sad looking man with wire-rimmed glasses, tries to lift him off the floor but that only makes the boy even more crazy. He sort of goes rigid and screams and screams his lungs out: he's like a toddler throwing a tantrum. His Dad looks like he wants to cry too. Everyone looks so sad here.

But I suppose none of them ever expected their kids to be mental enough to need to see a psychiatrist.

"Amelia Pond?" The receptionist calls sweetly.

Aunt Sharon grabs me by the sleeve of my coat - she never could get used to holding my hand - and marches me towards Dr. Carmichael's door.

Dr. Carmichael is a really nice man. He has wavy black hair and blue eyes. I can tell Aunt Sharon fancies him, because she keeps smiling at him and laughing loudly at all of the stupid jokes he makes. He's not that funny.

Dr. Carmichael has a blue tie that has little pictures of smiley faces on it. The tie makes me like him a little bit, but it makes something hurt in my chest too. I bought Dad a tie like that last Christmas - it had a picture of Rudolph on it, and when you pressed Rudolph's nose it played 'Jingle Bells'. Dad had loved it and wore it all over Christmas, telling me over and over again how I was the most lovely little daughter he could ever have had in the world. My eyes sting with tears and I blink them away quickly. I'm not going to let them see me cry.

"So, Amelia." Dr. Carmichael says gently "I hear you've been having a bit of a hard time, recently."

"I suppose." I say shrugging

"She thinks her imaginary friend is real, doctor." Aunt Sharon interrupts. I scowl at her. Right then I want to kick her like that stupid boy in the waiting room who kept kicking his Mum. "She's convinced."

"Amelia-" Dr. Carmichael says kindly "Tell me about this friend."

"The Doctor, you mean?" I ask curiously. He nods quietly.

So I tell him everything. I tell him about the crack in the wall, about the raggedy Doctor, about time travelling blue boxes and giant eyes in the wall and fish custard. He nods as he listens and every now and then he writes something down on a clipboard. Aunt Sharon is looking bored and keeps sighing.

"So what does it mean then, doctor?" Aunt Sharon says slowly "Do we have to cart her off to the loony bin, or what?"

I look up sharply at that.

"No, of course not." Dr. Carmichael laughs, his face creasing up in a smile. "I just think Amelia might need someone to talk to…"

I hear them talking, but I'm not listening, not properly anyway. I hear words like "bereavement" and "grief", and "loneliness". My eyes are drawn to the picture that is tacked up behind Dr. Carmichael's head. It's a big glossy poster showing all of the planets of the solar system. The rings of Saturn. The swirling brown and reddish mass of Jupiter. The small red circle of Mars. After the Doctor left, I went to the library and took out every book I could possibly find on space. The ladies there thought it was brilliant, they thought I had a school project or something. I told them the truth - that my friend the Doctor was going to take me into space when he came back for me, which would be any day now. They smiled at that, but I know that they phoned Aunt Sharon afterwards. And then she had a chat with me that involved her sitting me on the sofa and letting me drink Coke in the lounge, and telling me that it was alright if I missed my Mum and Dad and that I could even cry if I wanted to. I stared at her as if she had three heads. Of course I missed my Mum and Dad, but I couldn't see what that had to do with anything. They were dead; they'd been in that car crash and they were dead. Everyone had told me about how they were in heaven - but who believes rubbish like that anyway? Mum and Dad are dead - because if they were in heaven they'd find a way to talk to me, and they've not yet. So they must be gone for good.

I don't remember much of the car accident. I remember us all getting into the car, me strapped into the back and swinging my legs and laughing when Dad sang along with the pop songs on the radio. I remember Mum asking me if I had remembered to bring my sunglasses and tugging at my hand fondly, with a smile that was brighter than the sun. Then everything goes hazy. I remember everything going black and when I woke up the windscreen was smashed and broken and there was blood trickling into my eyes. There was a paramedic cutting through my seatbelt and he kept saying everything would be fine when I knew they wouldn't be because Mum and Dad weren't moving, and all of the paramedics with them were shouting things like "multiple head injuries" and "collapsed lungs", like the things on those medical programs that Mum had always watched. Every time I moved I got stabbing pains up and down my right arm, and the paramedic kept telling me to stay still. I remember being put into an ambulance and crying when they said that Mum and Dad couldn't come with me, that I couldn't even go and talk to them, that I couldn't even give them a kiss goodbye. I remember all of the people at the hospital, some of them smiley, some of them sad, and some of them who didn't speak at all but just stared. I remember getting x-rays and a smiling, motherly nurse holding my hand as I had my arm put in plaster. I remember how I got a lump in my throat the size of a football that I just couldn't swallow when the policeman came into the room and told me that Mum and Dad had passed away. The nurse kept rubbing my hand and squeezing it tight, and I wanted to cry because that's what people do when someone dies but I just couldn't. I felt so confused about everything. This morning I'd had a Mum and a Dad and now I didn't have either of them. They were gone, just like that.

Then I had to talk to a counsellor, who wore his hair in a ponytail and gave me lollipops and books about bad dreams and feeling sad. Then I had to leave Scotland and live with Aunt Sharon - Nanny Jess wanted me to go and live with her, but her legs were bad, and she kept forgetting what day it was and the last time she'd seen me she'd called me Katie, which was Mum's name.

"Of course, there's nothing wrong with a child who might make up a friend if they feel a little lonely." Dr. Carmichael says suddenly, smiling gently. He turns towards me and takes my hand in his. "I know it feels like this Doctor man is real Amelia; and it's because you wanted him to be real. You wanted a nice, funny friend like him. But he's not real Amelia. It didn't happen."

The next thing I realise Dr. Carmichael is gasping and pain and Aunt Sharon is shouting at me and dragging me out of the room by my collar. I look over my shoulder and see Dr. Carmichael clutching his hand where I bit him. He's bleeding too, I smile fiendishly. That'll teach him not to say that the Doctor isn't real. Even though sometimes I can't help but think that they are right and I really am crazy. But then I remember him, and I know that even my imagination isn't good enough to make up a man like him. A time traveller with a blue box who eats fish fingers dipped in custard. Because he is real. He's the most real person I've ever known.

"I'm very disappointed in you Amelia." Aunt Sharon says as she drags me through the car park. She sends me to bed early that night and she doesn't tuck me in or talk to me at all the whole evening. But I don't care. Because when I dream I see a man in a blue box who could take me away from everything that's ever hurt me. He's always smiling, and he's always pleased to see me. And he'll come back one day.

Just you wait and see.


	2. Chapter 2

When you all told me how much you wanted to see the Doctor confront one of the psychiatrists, this idea popped into my head - and I couldn't resist.

CHAPTER TWO

When I told the Doctor about what I'd done to Dr. Carmichael he found it hilarious - but at the same time he took it deadly seriously. Then he went really quiet before suddenly jumping up with a loud "Aha!" and he told me he had a million pound idea. The million pound idea turned out dragging me back to Dr. Carmichael's practice to confront him about whether the Doctor was real or not.

The Doctor races into the waiting room as if the dogs of hell were chasing him and smacks right into the receptionist's desk with a heavy smack.

"Hello there!" He says gleefully "I want to see Dr. Carmichael please. It's a super big emergency."

I stand behind him, struggling to hide my smile behind my hand, and try to take on an expression that is halfway serious.

"_You_ want to see him?" The receptionist asks, her eyes wide "But sir, Dr. Carmichael is a child psychologist."

"Yes!" The Doctor nods seriously "It is my inner child that is in turmoil."

And as if to prove that fact, he pushes past me and plonks right down on the carpet, before pushing a few Matchbox cars up and down noisily. The child who is sat beside him, a boy of about 8-years-old with smooth coffee colour skin, stares at the Doctor with awe and delight.

"This one is the best car!" The Doctor says conversationally, thrusting a green plastic toy car into the boy's hand.

"Yeah - I bet it could go r-r-really fast!" The boy grins. The Doctor smiles winningly back. I turn away from the scene, and face the receptionist.

"Yeah, he's really going to need to see Dr. Carmichael." I say, filling my voice with false emotion "I really don't know what to do anymore. Last week, he threw a tantrum in the middle of Sainsbury's when I wouldn't let him have crisps."

That seems to do the trick. The receptionist waves me through hurriedly, and tells me to take a seat. Whilst I fill out a form claiming the Doctor to have the mental behaviour of a five-year-old, the man himself sits cross-legged in the play area, happily building a complicated looking structure out of Lego bricks.

"L-look Dad!" The little boy says excitedly "Look at w-what he's b-building!"

"Come and sit down next to me, Leon." His father says quickly. The boy, Leon, frowns but listens to his father and sits down beside him, turning a sad look in the Doctor's direction. I understand why Leon's Dad is so freaked out by the Doctor - I'm not sure I'd want to let my child go anywhere near him as he is right now.

The Lego skyscraper abandoned ("I ran out of bricks!") he's sitting on the carpet, his knees curled up underneath him, scribbling frantically on a piece of paper with a blue crayon. Tongue between his teeth, his nose mere centimetres from the paper, he is the picture of absolutely concentration.

"Done!" He shouts with a flourish. He jumps up onto his feet and rushes over to me, knocking into chairs in the process. He waves the paper in front of me.

"Look Amy I drew the TARDIS!" He says excitedly, before sitting down next to me, swinging his legs. He whispers into my ear hurriedly: "How am I doing?"

"A bit much." I say quietly "You should try to calm down, you know, just a bit at least."

The Doctor nods morosely and stares back out at the other people in the waiting room. They are all staring at him with a mixture of utmost terror and fascination. The little girl sat opposite us is smiling, though weakly; her smile widens when the Doctor winks at her playfully.

"Doctor Michael Brown?" The receptionist calls uncertainly.

The Doctor sits scraping his feet against the lino until he realises that I'm standing up, my hand held out to him expectantly.

"I'm Michael Brown?" He asks confusedly.

"Yes!" I cry pulling him to his feet.

As I push him towards Dr. Carmichael's office, I hear the little girl whisper loudly to her mother: "That poor man, not even knowing what his name is."

Dr. Carmichael's office doesn't look that different to the last time I saw it. The solar system poster is gone, to my dismay, and has been replaced with a picture of HMS Victory, which I doubt can be that inspiring to that many kids. The children in the photo frames on his desk are older, they are now adults carrying toddlers and babies, or great lanky teenagers with hair falling into their eyes. Dr. Carmichael has gone gray, and his tie is crumpled; no smiley faces today - instead it has little silver stars decorating it. A lump comes to my throat again, thinking of Dad, but I turn away quickly and face the Doctor.

He is sat on the rigid plastic seat looking thoroughly bored; he's even pouting.

"Now, Michael -" Dr. Carmichael starts uncertainly "The receptionist explained to me your special circumstances."

"Yes, I am very special." The Doctor announces proudly. I smirk at that.

"But enough about me!" He shouts loudly almost making Dr. Carmichael jump out of his seat in surprise "Amy needs to talk to you!"

"Amy?" Dr. Carmichael asks turning towards me. I raise my hand in a half-hearted wave.

"Remember me, Dr. Carmichael?" I ask him slowly "Amelia Pond."

"Amelia Pond… I'm not sure-" Dr. Carmichael murmurs

"I bit you." I say quickly. Dr. Carmichael's face lights up with recognition and he stares at me aghast.

"You said that the Doctor didn't exist." I said raising my eyebrows. I gesture towards the Doctor who is sat watching us with interest. "That's him."

"That's him?!" Dr. Carmichael repeats in amazement

"Yes it is!" The Doctor cries "And I don't take very kindly to what you've been telling Amy…"

Dr. Carmichael is frozen rigid to his seat staring up at the Doctor who has now leapt to his feet and is towering above him.

"How dare you tell Amy I wasn't real!" The Doctor says with indignation "I'd never go around telling people you don't exist. I've never even met you before."

I can't help it then, I burst out laughing. Then the Doctor bursts out laughing too. He grabs my hand and with a big ridiculous grin shouts "Bye!" to the stunned Dr. Carmichael before pulling me out the door.

We run out of that doctor's surgery so fast I'm sure that my chest will explode from the exertion or that my face will split from the wideness of my smile.

"Well!" The Doctor says when we are back in the TARDIS "That was fun."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all so much for your comments - you're just plain lovely, the whole lot of you. I've decided to have the rest of the chapters showing Amy telling the Doctor about the psychiatrists - as then we can have two Amy's - the Amy with the Doctor, and the Amy as a young girl growing up without him. Please keep leaving your suggestions as to what you'd like to see next, as they are very helpful. Thanks. x

**Psychiatrist 2**

"So, what was the second one like?" The Doctor asks me three days later, when we're sat in a pizza parlour in 1998 New York. He's half way through the cheese pizza we're supposed to be sharing, and stares over at me expectantly with his warm spaniel eyes.

I lean back in my uncomfortable plastic chair and pretend to be fascinated by the napkin holder, and the menu that is stained with remnants of ketchup and old forgotten meals.

"He was… Scottish."

* * *

Dr. MacDonald is a funny man, and he's Scottish, so I liked him right away. Instead of the solar system, he has a poster of the Lake District because that's where he goes camping sometimes. I remember when I last went camping. Me, Mum and Dad crammed into a tent in the back garden, eating jam tarts and giggling and giggling as if it was the funniest thing in the world. We didn't stay in the tent the whole night; it had started raining, and by about one o'clock in the morning the tent was flooded, and the sleeping bags were soaked. Mum took me inside to get dry, whilst Dad battled with the tent; eventually he gave up trying to take it down, and abandoned it until morning. Even though it was cold, and wet and I got no sleep at all that night, I remember it as being one of the happiest nights of my life - well, except for when I met the Doctor of course, but not much can compare to him.

Dr. MacDonald was really nice the first time I met him. He chatted to me about school, and my friends and about what kind of music I liked. He gave me biscuits and a glass of orange juice and had seemed so friendly and funny.

But today he is different; today he is angry. He's been watching me for the past ten minutes - he thought it would be a good idea to get me to do some drawings of 'my special Doctor friend'. It was the drawings that started all of this in the first place.

Usually I keep them hidden in a drawer, stuffed out of sight so Aunt Sharon can't see them. But she found them. And then she got really mad.

"I thought you'd put all of that Doctor nonsense behind you, Amelia." She kept on saying "You really are getting much too old for imaginary friends…"

I shouted at her then, and she shouted at me and I spent the night shut up in my room. It was okay - I didn't want to talk to her anyway. She's so nice to me sometimes, and then I have moments when I really properly hate her. Like the time we were in Marks and Spencer's looking at clothes, and the lady behind the counter had thought Aunt Sharon was my Mum. Aunt Sharon hadn't even said anything, she'd just smiled and put her arm around my shoulders. I pulled away from her right away and I didn't speak to her for three days. She's not my Mum. She'll never be my Mum; the sooner she realises that, the better.

Dr. MacDonald is holding up my drawing excitedly. It's a picture of me and the Doctor stood in the garden; he's got a big lopsided grin to go with his big lopsided haircut and is holding my hand.

"Amelia, it really is time for you to stop all of this." Dr. MacDonald says suddenly "You're a grown up girl now; in a few years you'll be starting secondary school, and we really can't have all of this nonsense then, can we?"

I don't know why he keeps asking me questions; it's not like he expects me to answer him anyway. Aunt Sharon is nodding her head - she thinks it's about time someone 'put me in my place'.

"I know it feels like this Doctor man is real-" He starts

"But he is real!" I say hurriedly. He smiles at me. This sad, weak little smile as if he feels sorry for me (which he isn't).

"I think you dreamt him Amelia." He says softly. "And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend… but you are not a little girl anymore."

"He's not imaginary!" I cry "He's real!"

He turns away and looks at Aunt Sharon impatiently.

"I think that Amelia might be better off in group therapy." He says slowly.

"Yes, I see." Aunt Sharon replies. My face burns - they're talking about me as if I'm not even in the room!

"She can be with other children like her, and talk over her problems…" Dr. MacDonald smiles at me falsely, and pats my hand.

"What do you mean, children like me?" I ask him. My blood is pounding in my ears. Everything begins to sound like it's far away. I know what is coming.

"Well… children who are especially disturbed and- OW!"

That shut him up. Before the stupid, horrible man could even finish his sentence I had kicked him hard in the shin. And to think, I had liked him because he'd been Scottish and had given me biscuits. Aunt Sharon was apologising to Dr. MacDonald over and over, whilst he hobbled around the room and got as far away from me as possible. He was staring over at me as if I was a monster ready to jump out and attack him.

"She's obviously got some anger issues to." He says sounding harassed "Perhaps I could recommend some anger management classes-"

"Shut up or I'll bite you." I snap crossly "I bit the last one, you know." I added.

"Amelia!" Aunt Sharon cries "Say sorry to Dr. MacDonald this instant, young lady!"

"No!"

"AMELIA!"

"No!"

Aunt Sharon tried everything she could to guilt me into saying sorry. She even mentioned Mum and Dad, suggesting that they would be so disappointed to see me acting so silly. In the end I mumbled an apology, just so I could get out of there.

In the car, Aunt Sharon turns up the radio and keeps her eyes fixed on the road.

I wish I had Mum or Dad to talk to. I think they'd understand somehow - but they've been dead for two and a half years now.

The Doctor is real. I know he is; but I'm getting tired of everyone telling me he doesn't exist. Aunt Sharon gets angry whenever I say his name, and even Rory is fed up of playing our 'raggedy Doctor' games. He says he'd rather play football, even though he's rubbish at it. No one believes me anymore. Even Jeff from next door says I'm crazy, but he doesn't say it in a nasty way. He says it in the same way you might say "you're very tall" or "you have very long hair". He says he's glad I'm crazy, because he's always wanted a nutter for a friend. I punched him on the shoulder for that; but I didn't really mean it.

I'm still waiting for the Doctor to come back. He said he'd only be five minutes. Perhaps he changed his mind. Perhaps he doesn't like me anymore. Perhaps he'd lied, and he'd never wanted to take me with him in the first place; who wants to go around with a little girl? A little girl would get in the way, especially when you were doing something as exciting as time travelling. He's left me…

* * *

"But I didn't leave you." The Doctor says, reaching across the table and lacing his fingers through mine "Well- I sort of did, but I came back. I was just a bit late."

I observe him, eyebrow quirked with mock irritation, and then laugh at the face he's pulling: for a moment there, I think he believed I was still angry with him. And I sort of am… but it's easy to forget about all of those years of loneliness when you're sat in a dingy diner in New York City, holding hands with the only person you've ever wanted to be with. And he is the only person - he really is. I love Rory, of course I do - but it's an easy love, a love between friends. I'd never want to see him sad and I'd never want to let him down. But deep inside I suppose I've always known that the only person I could feel anything for was that mad man in a box, with his hair askew and his grin ridiculously wide, holding out his hand to me and telling me to come with him. And I've sort of felt that feeling since I was 7-years-old. I haven't put a name to it. But I think I know what it is; I wonder if he knows too?

I look over at the Doctor who has been sneaking pizza off of my plate for the last five minutes without me even noticing. His eyes dart up - caught in the act, and when he smiles at me with a mouthful of stolen pizza, I think I've never seen anyone look so dumb and infinitely wonderful all in one moment.


	4. Chapter 4

I know, I know - two chapters in one day, I really am spoiling you. But the inspiration for this chapter just hit me like a truck and I had to write it. It is a little darker than the other chapters okay? Just to warn you. There is a teeny bit of sex, but the very ungraphic kind so I wouldn't worry. Anyway, read on ...

**Psychiatrist 3**

I hadn't wanted to tell the Doctor about the third psychiatrist. He'd pestered me for days about it, casually dropping it into conversation and even going as far as sulking when I refused to talk about it. Eventually, I gave in.

The third psychiatrist is a woman, a friendly, kindly woman, with shoulder length brown hair and shiny polished round spectacles. Dr. Lindsay makes jokes, is kind, and understands girls because she has two daughters herself. I first come to visit her when I am 15 years old.

There is a more serious reason for me being there this time. It is not about drawings, or believing in an imaginary man - they are actually worried about me.

Dr. Lindsay starts talking to me about symptoms of anxiety and depression, about how I never really resolved my feelings after Mum and Dad died.

"I hear that you've been suffering from panic attacks, Amy." She says, peering over the top of her glasses and surveying me intently.

"Not really." I say, shuffling about in my seat "Just the one."

It happened at school. I don't have many friends there, except Rory and maybe Jeff - most people stay clear, they don't want to be seen anywhere near 'mad Amy Pond'. The gang, all made up of girls in identical silver padded jackets and identical swinging ponytails, cornered me during the lunch hour. I was alone, because Rory was trying to be cool and fit in by kicking a football around with the other boys and Jeff was in detention for swearing at a teacher. They surrounded me easily.

"Oi, Amy!" The ringleader, a girl with a name like Melanie or Melody or something similar called out, her tones ringing loudly. "I heard you made up a boyfriend."

"Making up a boyfriend?" One of the other girls echoed "That's pathetic. What, you can't get a boyfriend so you make one up?"

"I didn't make anyone up." I murmured, staring down at the pavement and subconsciously wishing it would swallow me whole.

"I heard you've gone to tons of psychiatric doctors." Melanie or Melody smirks "You must be proper mental, I'm surprised they haven't locked you up."

The other girls begin jostling me, shoving me hard on the shoulder and laughing nastily. I tell them to stop it, to leave me alone, but that only makes them laugh more and before I realise it I am running and running, tears running down my face and their insults ringing in my ears. My chest feels tight and I can't breathe, I feel dizzy - I can't breathe! My breaths are coming frantically, but no air is going in and it feels like the world is folding in on me. The next thing I remember Mr. Braithwaite, the Maths teacher who Jeff is always moaning about giving him too much homework, is holding my head between my knees and telling me I can breathe, that I _must_ calm down and somehow stop this urgent feeling of terror pounding through my body. Every one of my senses is telling me I am not safe. Every single one of those sense is screaming for me to find somewhere remotely safe to hide myself.

I recover eventually. They send me home in the middle of the day, and Aunt Sharon is worried and upset, but not because she was called away from her work during a meeting, but because she is frightened for me. This time I can tell she is really scared.

She makes me an appointment with the psychiatrist again, and this time I don't protest or kick up a fuss, or refuse to leave the house like I did when I was little, because I feel like I need some help.

Dr. Lindsay is warm and caring and doesn't tell me that the Doctor isn't real because she focuses on me entirely. She scans her eyes over my file briefly and mutters something about unresolved issues in childhood.

"I want you to try some counselling." She says carefully "Just once a week at first. But I'd also like you to try some medication."

"Drugs?" Aunt Sharon asks from her place by the door "That sounds a little… extreme."

In that moment I manage a half-hearted smile - it is nice to hear Aunt Sharon speaking like that about me. I know she does love me, of course she does, but she finds it hard to talk about - she once told me that everyone she has ever loved has left her at some point in her life. Uncle Billy, Gran, my Mum and my Dad. She doesn't want to lose me too.

"A mild dose." Dr. Lindsay says calmly "Just to calm you down, and help you think a little more clearly. An anti-anxiety will do the job, but I think in this case an anti-depressive drug might be beneficial. Prozac."

"Anti-depressive?" I ask suddenly "I'm not depressed."

"I know that." Dr. Lindsay smiles "But Prozac can greatly help people in your situation. I think it might be worth a try."

I pause, biting my lip. I'd be even more mental if I was to go on some medication. Jeff would laugh and tease me, before asking me what they tasted like. Rory would go all shy and not talk about it, and stroke my shoulder in an oddly comforting manner. But those pills would stop that feeling of fear again. It would stop it.

"Okay." I say "I'll try them."

We collect the prescription the next day, and for the first two weeks everything feels alright. Aunt Sharon watches me unscrupulously ever day as I swallow each pill with a gulp of cool water. She always squeezes my hand afterwards, and tells me she is proud of how brave I am being. I don't feel brave at all.

Then everything begins changing, oh so slowly.

Prozac makes everything feel strange. It is as if I am floating underwater - everything feels sluggish and far away. But it was at night when it was worse. I began having vivid terrifying nightmares from which I would wake up in a frenzy, my heart hammering in my ribcage, hardly able to breathe from the fear that wrenched my insides. The nightmares were mostly about Mum and Dad, and the car crash. In a particularly horrible version of one of these dreams, I woke up during the accident and no paramedics were in sight. I was completely alone, strapped in the back of the car unable to move. I could see Mum and Dad, both of them covered in blood, still and dead. It is at that moment that I try to open the doors, to run for help; then there is that sickening feeling of dread when I realise I can't, that I am trapped. I am pounding on the windows and kicking out with my legs but it is as if something is sitting on them because I can hardly move them. Then I am screaming and screaming - and I snap to attention and wake up in my own bed, with Aunt Sharon standing above me, a look of worry stretched onto her face.

After the nightmares I cannot get back to sleep. The doctors call it insomnia, a common side affect of the pills. I walk around like a zombie. I sit up all night, just staring at the faint hairline crack in my wall - it's still there, but is less defined now. I stare and stare at it, until I can almost see him, a faint outline, a garish shadow. I can almost feel him beside me, then I blink or move my head and he is gone. I begin drawing again, hurried, frantic sketches; pencils pressed so hard into the paper that they break and I have to sharpen them again. They are always the same drawings. The Doctor with the blue box. The Doctor holding my hand. The Doctor smiling at me, telling me everything will be fine when I know it really won't this time, because it feels like the world is slipping far away from me. I change.

On the 20th of April, a warm summers day, I lose my virginity to Rory, in my back garden of all places. Aunt Sharon is out with her Women's Institute friends, no doubt sitting around drinking tea and eating scones, and pretending to be posh and grand.

Since taking the medication I had felt so lost, like a discarded balloon floating up, up and away out of sight. I needed something to grab onto, to anchor myself to the world. Rory came over and while we in the garden, sat underneath the old oak tree, laughing at something Rory had said he kissed me - and it just, sort of happened. I lay flat on my back, on the soft plaid rug in the grass, with Rory looming over me. I stayed completely still the entire time, staring up at the canopy of leaves sheltering us both, watching the splashes of yellow sunlight filter through the branches until my eyes began to sting. It was quick - quicker than I thought it would be, with only a brief moment of pain.

When it was over and we lay side by side, silent in the sunlight, I began to cry. Rory bumbled about panicking, saying that he was sorry, that he hadn't meant to frighten me. I managed to convince him it wasn't his fault eventually. I was crying because of me. I shouldn't have done it: I wasn't ready, and I didn't love Rory. I'd always thought my first time would be with someone I loved, who loved me back. Rory had been so nice; I wanted to feel real for a second, just for a second. I wanted to feel like I used to feel, raggedy Doctor or not. I missed all of those daydreams I'd used to have, about him suddenly turning up in the blue box and whisking me off in adventure - I really miss those daydreams.

The next day I tell Aunt Sharon I don't want to take medication anymore and to my utmost surprise, she agrees. She too had noticed a change in me, and was about to suggest the same thing. I came off of the Prozac. Even through all the years that passed later, even after all we went through, me and Rory never spoke of what happened that day. It stayed trapped there; a secret, hidden beneath an oak tree, only to be thought of in a fleeting passing memory.

The Doctor is remarkably quiet for once, and is staring at me from his place on the console chair. Then, wordlessly, he stands up and enfolds me in a tight, warm hug. I cling to him in reply, burying my face in the space where his neck and shoulder meet and breathe deeply. I don't feel so alone anymore - and I don't think I'll ever feel that alone again.


	5. Chapter 5

Right, this is the last chapter of this fanfiction. Sorry for the delay in posting, but I've had a load of other Doctor/Amy fanfictions on the go. This isn't the last you've heard of me - I'm working on a partner piece to this fanfiction, set in the two years between the Atraxi attack, and the Doctor turning up again at the end of 'The Eleventh Hour'. Thank you so much for all of your lovely reviews - you're incredible, the lot of you. This isn't the best chapter, but I think it expresses what I wanted to say. Enjoy. xxx

**CHAPTER FIVE:**

After I told the Doctor about the events surrounding 'the third psychiatrist' he tiptoed around me a little. He softened, was no longer quick to snap at me in times of crisis or confusion, and even invited me to see the TARDIS' library.

The library - which incidentally did have a swimming pool, filled with the coolest deep blue water - was a towering room filled with tall bookcases stretching up to a high glass ceiling.

"Every book ever printed, that ever will be printed, that I've enjoyed is here." The Doctor said to me gently. He nudged my arm slowly, his fingers barely touching mine. "You can come in here anytime you want to."

I smiled at him, and threaded my arm through his.

"Thank you." I whispered. It was perfect.

For the next four days the TARDIS was kept stationary. The Doctor claimed it was because he had to do some complicated type of maintenance on the TARDIS, but I knew the truth. He was giving me a holiday of sorts - he was waiting until I was ready to talk some more. He was patient, brought me hot chocolate in the library at night, never complaining or having a hint of disdain at me cluttering up his precious library at all hours.

I found myself flicking through books I had once only ever heard of from my school years. I went through volumes of poetry; Eliot, Keats, Wordsworth. I read countless plays of William Shakespeare, giggling my way through the comedies and sitting enthralled by the tragedies. I read girly novels, the books you read on the beach in the summer that always involve women and their foolish husbands and the handsome boy next door. I try to read Jane Austen, but get frustrated by the complicated language and get a headache. I smile all the way through _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ remembering golden summer days of childhood when I too would rush about my garden imagining a dream world, longing for magic and time travelling blue boxes and fantastic men who could disappear with the blink of an eye. I flick through _Harry Potter_ novels, and remembered how Rory had grasped each one so tightly, pouring over every word and name, and then something twists in my stomach; so I put those books back. Then I find a book called _The Time Traveller's Wife_, and it captures something so deep and sincere that I didn't know existed inside of me, that I proceed to sneak it out of the library and hide it in a drawer in the room the TARDIS let me call my own.

When I return to the library, I find the Doctor seated snugly in a battered armchair, his feet resting on a nearby table, completely engrossed in a copy of _David Copperfield_. I tiptoe in quietly, careful not to disturb him-

"Hello Amy!" He calls out, not even moving his gaze from the book in front of him.

"How did you know I was there?" I ask, almost irritated with him, but then he does this cute little smile and my stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that I don't even want to think about, and I can't be mad at him at all.

"I heard you coming." He says happily, laying the volume on the table. "This version of me seems to have pretty acute hearing- anyway! How are you?"

"I'm okay." I reply easily. The Doctor just stares at me, an eyebrow raised, daring me to lie to him.

"I guess… I'm just grateful we've had a break from things." I say quietly. I throw myself rather ungracefully into the armchair next to his, and hug my knees to my chest. "It's nice just to stop for once, you know?"

The Doctor nods, and smiles at me.

"I'm glad you're enjoying the library." He says, casting his eyes skyward to the ceiling "It's a very soothing place in here. Any worries you have seem to float away when you're reading a good book…"

He pauses, and smiles at me again.

"You ready to talk again?" He asks quietly. I sigh.

"Yeah." I whisper. "I was sixteen…"

We're on the bus home from school. I'm sat next to Rory, in the aisle seat, whilst Jeff is sat behind us. Jeff is eating one of those disgusting burgers out of yellow polystyrene tray - he bought it from that dodgy looking burger van that skulks outside the school gates at home time. I keep telling him that he'll probably get food poisoning and die and it serves him bloody right as well; he just grins back with a mouthful of the said burger, telling me it's all worth it as he is absolutely starving.

"Anyway, why would I take the advice of someone having to see a psychiatrist once a week?" Jeff says teasingly, winking at me for good measure. I smirk back and roll my eyes - it has become a running joke between us now. Anytime I get angry with him (which is always, as Jeff is constantly a pain in the backside) he always pipes up with a horrified look on his face that 'mad Amy' is about to attack him.

"How's it going with this new doctor, then?" Rory asks quietly from his seat beside me. He's being particularly sheepish and meek around me, ever since the incident beneath the oak tree in my back garden. He won't talk about it and neither will I, we skate around it tentatively hoping that perhaps one day it'll just vanish from our memories and can start over again.

"He's not too bad…" I say shrugging "He was alright at first, most of the time he tries to get me to talk about Mum and Dad. I think he's expecting me to cry. It's as if he's waiting for it."

"Well, that's how they get paid, isn't it?" Jeff adds excitedly from behind me "The more they make you cry the more money they get - except they call it 'emotional purging' or some rubbish like that."

"Psychiatrists can actually really help people, you know."

I turn to my right, and see that it is the boy sat opposite me who has spoken. It is Danny O'Connor. Everyone says Danny is a total weirdo, what with his tangled black hair always falling into his crystal blue eyes and his soft leather jacket, and the fact that he hardly ever speaks to anyone. If ever someone tries to involve him in a conversation he just sits and stares at them, blinking in reply; Jeff once laughing suggested that perhaps he was relaying a message in Morse code whilst blinking, which earned a few giggles.

But no one really picks on Danny really as if weirdness is catching; and Rory's told me about the bruises all over Danny's shoulders that they've seen in the boys changing rooms when getting ready for P.E. Danny keeps himself invisible.

Which is why I am absolutely stunned that he is bothering to talk to me on the number 41 bus heading into Leadworth.

"What would you know about it?" I ask him with interest. His eyes dart around a little, as if he knows he's said too much. Then he blinks.

"I see a psychiatrist every Wednesday." Danny replies quietly "Dr. Wilson. I've been seeing him for about four months now."

"Why?" Jeff asks loudly.

"Jeff! That's none of your business." I snap and turn back to Danny, whose suddenly become withdrawn and silent.

"It's okay." He whispers. "I just… need help sometimes."

I look at him and he stares back at me, and in that moment we understand each other perfectly.

"Yeah." I say "Me too."

Me and Danny soon build up a sort of easy friendship. Every day about 6 o'clock in the evening I wander round the village with him whilst he takes his dog, Rugby, for a walk. We soon end up chatting about everything. About football, and doctors, and people who promise you they'll really stay this time but then they never do. It's on one of these occasions that he tells me why he has to see the psychiatrist."My step dad…" He says tightening his grip on Rugby's lead, his knuckles white. "He was horrible. He used to hit my Mum, really bad and um… it wasn't her fault, she tried really hard to protect me…"

I just stare at him, waiting for him to continue.

"He started hitting me too." Danny says hurriedly, all in a rush as if the words had been dying to escape, but had trapped within him for years. "One time he threw me down the stairs. I hit my head and I had to have eight stitches. It was after that when Mum said no more."

"What happened?" I ask, my eyes intently examining his face.

"We ran." Danny says, a slight smile coming to his lips "We just ran, in the middle of the night. We went all over the place to get away from him, 'cause we knew he'd find us. We changed our names."

"Your not called Danny?" I ask in surprise. Danny smiles and shakes his head.

"No." He says. "It's safer this way. This way he never finds us. He never hurts us again."

We are never a romance - me and Danny. He kissed me goodnight once, and we spent about ten minutes before holding hands before deciding it was way too weird and, hello, awkward. But when Danny has told me everything about himself, I return the favour.

I tell him all about the raggedy Doctor, about my imaginary friend in his time travelling blue box. About fish custard and baked beans and bread and butter - and how I was beginning to believe I must have dreamt the entire thing.

"He was just too incredible to be real." I smile, remembering time travelling blue boxes and the crack in my bedroom wall, and fish custard and how he'd held my hand and made me believe in everything he said. "I mean, no one can be that amazing. It's not possible."

"He sounds like a great imaginary friend." Danny says shyly, his eyes watching me coyly from under his fringe. "I mean if you're going to have an imaginary friend, why not one with a time machine?"

"Exactly." I sigh "I wish he was real… I still believe he's real, a little bit at least; but not as much as I used to."

"Why is that, do you think?" Danny asks, slowing to a halt as Rugby the dog happily inspected a brick wall as if it was the most fascinating thing on earth.

"He said he'd come back." I murmur "He said he'd be five minutes. It's been about nine years now… and in all that time he never came back for me."

"You never know." Danny says smiling "Perhaps he'll come back for you one day and whisk you off without a moments notice."

I grin in reply.

"I hope so."

Psychiatrist number 4 is called Dr. Bobb - when Aunt Sharon first told me his name, both me and Rory descended into a fit of giggles, most ridiculous for a pair of sixteen year olds. Dr. Bobb didn't turn out to be nearly as funny as his name. He was strict and boring, with one of those voices that you can't help but drift off to as he drones on and on about some unimportant thing. He had decided, after about three weeks of sessions, that the 'root cause' of all my problems was that I somehow still believed in my imaginary friend. He was determined, to get me to say that the Doctor wasn't real; I was beginning to have my doubts, but I wasn't going to tell Dr. Bobb that - the Doctor was my fantasy, my secret. Even if he wasn't real, I didn't want him to be taken away.

Dr. Bobb has no posters on his wall; no vivid colours of the Solar System, no bland watercolour of the HMS Victory. Absolutely nothing. The walls are stark, white; nothing to stare at when I'm pretending to listen to him.

"So, Amelia-" He still insists on calling me that, no matter how many times I've told him to call me Amy. It reminds me of the Doctor, and how he'd said it all those years ago, like a name in a book, a story, a fairytale - that was just what he was.

Dr. Bobb's glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back hurriedly - he does that a lot, I once counted how many times his glasses slipped down his nose in a minute: seven times.

"I really think you need to stop getting yourself caught up in these childish fantasies." Dr. Bobb is saying haplessly "I know you've had a lot of trauma in your past, but it is time to let go of all those little stories and childish games. He was never real Amelia."

"I know." I say, a little sadly, staring down at my trainers "I know. He can't be real."

"You don't seem to mean those words, Amelia." Dr. Bobb says sternly "And if this… man, was real. Well, he wasn't a very nice man."

That gets my attention. "What?"

"Well, a grown man wandering into the house to spend time with a seven year old girl. You must understand, Amelia… if this Doctor was real, he is not worth remembering."

"You just told me he wasn't real, and now you're telling me he was some kind of-!" I am so angry, I can hardly speak. "You know the first psychiatrist I came to see told me he wasn't real."

"Yes." Dr. Bobb says, allowing himself a little titter of amusement "And I do believe you bit him."

"Yes. I did." I say smiling meekly.

I dash forward before he realises anyway and grab his wrist. I bite him hard, so hard he yowls with pain and stares at me like a wounded animal.

"There. That hurt didn't it." I say, my voice wobbling with false calmness "That felt real didn't it. Well so did the Doctor, and even if he was a dream, even if he was a fantasy he'll always be real to me!"

I storm out of the office, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. I don't go back.

The Doctor decides we deserve a treat. We travel to August 15th 1965, Queens, New York City - why, the Doctor won't say. When we arrive at the Shea Stadium and we are crammed together in the crowd, screaming ourselves raw to be heard over the din, I spend one of the best afternoons of my life cheering and dancing with the rest of them, watching the Beatles play. They're too far away to be seen properly and you can hardly hear them over all the screaming, but it's enough somehow. We walk back to the TARDIS hand in hand afterwards, and the Doctor suggests Las Vegas next time, wondering if Elvis would be willing to meet us…


End file.
